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The moment John sees it, he knows, he just knows that he has to buy it for Sherlock. He doesn’t know why—there is just something about it that screams at John that his young lover will adore it.
And so John buys it.
Just like that.
A soft toy.
For his sixteen year old lover.
A part of him feels ashamed and guilty about it, yet another part of him tries to bury those feelings deep down, where they won’t bother him. Sherlock has been trying for what feels like forever to tell John that his…kink (God, he can’t even think the term without cringing slightly) is nothing to hide away, nothing to feel badly about. Nothing that the two of them can’t share together. However, John has always had his reservations. Until recently, when Sherlock helped him see just how fun it could be to finally give in.
So he hard tries to hide the shame now. In its place, John searches and actually feels slightly…excited as he pays for his purchase and rushes out of the shop, heading straight to Sherlock’s house where he knows his teenage lover will be home alone, once again.
It is a nice change from the crippling, erection-wilting humiliation that he has felt in the past when Sherlock has tried to bring up John’s interest in this sort of thing.
Quite a nice change, indeed. John can feel arousal building low in his belly as he makes his way to Sherlock’s, warming him inside and making butterflies erupt in his stomach in a flurry. His cock twitches slightly in his trousers at the mere thought of seeing Sherlock with the soft toy and he knows that he has to get himself under control.
Rein it in, John. Your fetish is showing, he chastises himself sternly.
When he reaches Sherlock’s house, John lets himself in without worry, seeing that no one else is home and knowing that Sherlock will mostly likely be left alone for hours. He makes his way impatiently to Sherlock’s bedroom where he knows the teen will be, hardly able to control the nervous fluttering of his stomach. He is giddy as a teenager himself to show Sherlock his purchase and he is already calling out to the brunet as he opens the door to the bedroom, smile wide and happy on his face.
But halfway through the sentence, once the door is open and John can see Sherlock sitting at his desk in the midst of an experiment, all of the pleasure quickly drains away, replaced by a sudden surge of awkwardness.
“Sherlock, I…got you something,” he says, voice stuttering and going soft. Now that he’s here, in Sherlock’s room with the teenager watching him, about to take the toy out of the bag, he feels abruptly nervous. He knows he hadn’t felt ashamed when he bought it but now that Sherlock is sitting here in front of him, all 180 centimeters of teenage genius and elegant silk dressing gown, he feels the dark edges of doubt and uncertainty begin to creep in. He’s already in it now, though, and John has never backed down from anything before. He was a soldier, after all. So he squares his shoulders and determinedly removes his purchase from the bag, holding the toy out to Sherlock and biting back a breath as the adolescent turns an uninterested, glass-green gaze upon him.
It is a bear, soft and plush; not overly large but a good enough size to not be swallowed up by Sherlock’s large hands. John had made sure of that. Its fur was a light caramel color and made out of the softest material John has ever felt. The head of it was bigger round than the width of its body, making it almost impossible to sit up on its own. In the center of its tummy and on its snout the fur was a patch of pristine white, standing out against the soft caramel color of its body. Its eyes and nose were made out of big, black, flat expanses of thread sewn down tight, and its mouth was a long line of black thread sewn into a tiny smile in the center of its snowy snout. Its limbs were short and stubby and at the end of each arm, leg, and in the center of each ear there was a yellow piece of felt that offset the caramel and white of the bear.
Sherlock simply stares at the soft toy for a moment as John holds it between them, not moving, his quicksilver eyes wide and his plush mouth hanging slightly open. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, doesn’t even move. John blushes profusely the longer he stands there, neither one of them speaking.
God, he is so stupid. What was he thinking, buying this for the teen? Why did he ever think that this was a good idea? He’s an idiot. An idiot who has just embarrassed himself in the most humiliating way possible. He should never have—
“John, I…thank you.”
It is whispered so quietly that John thinks he may have heard wrong. No, he definitely must have heard wrong.
“Er, what?” John asks, shaking his head slightly and licking his lips. He takes a tentative step forward without even realizing it.
“Thank you,” Sherlock repeats a little louder, voice still breathy with wonder and eyes glued to the toy. He reaches a hand out for it and John numbly, unthinkingly, stretches the rest of the way to give it to him. Sherlock takes it gently in his large hands, cradling it against his chest and looking down at it as he sits at his desk next to his microscope, something disturbingly red on the slide beneath the lens. “I love it,” he tells John, running a long pale finger down the length of the bear’s face.
“You…you do?” John asks, disbelieving. He knows, though, that Sherlock would never lie to him. Needless to say, he is still confused as hell.
“Yes. It’s lovely. It’s so soft…” the deep voice trails off as Sherlock continues to caress the bear, staring at it as if John isn’t even in the room anymore.
“Er,” John says eloquently, frowning and shaking his head because he thinks Sherlock may be taking the piss, “if this is weird for you, we don’t have to—”
But John’s words are cut off as Sherlock whips his head up, looking at John for the first time since he was given the toy. There is a determined set to his eyes, a stubborn clench of his jaw, though his expression is soft and open. “I’ve already told you, John. I don’t mind doing this. And I know you like it, too.” He offers up a dazzling smile that makes John’s breath catch in his chest. Christ, months of having this boy still hasn’t acclimatised John to just how stunningly beautiful he is. “And I want to make you happy.”
Yes, Sherlock’s been telling him that for a while now, that he wants to “make John happy”. Sherlock’s been using that as the excuse to try to get John to play this dangerous little game from the very beginning. John just huffs out a laugh at Sherlock’s ploy and moves across the room to sit on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, not buying it for a second. “Go on,” he says, crossing his arms in front of his chest and giving Sherlock a cheeky smile, “tell me what I like about it, then.” He knows Sherlock loves to show off, loves any reason to deduce John. And John would be lying if he said that he didn’t like it himself.
“I know you like the mental aspects of it—taking care of someone, nurturing someone, providing for them. Dominating them,” Sherlock explains, looking John straight in the eye, and the man can’t help but shiver as Sherlock says the last two words, thinking of all the ways that John could do exactly that to him. “But this proves that you like the visual part of it as well,” he continues, holding up the bear. “You like emphasising my youth and you’re aroused by the things that make me noticeably young. We both know, though, that my actual age is the crucial factor in all of this but the thought of seeing me with something like this—something that de-ages me—makes it easier to fantasize, to play the game.”
Sherlock is too smart for his own good—always has been.
John just gives him a small smile. “What else do I like, hmm?”
“You also like the physical things about me that contribute to this fetish. You like the way my eyes make me look young and innocent, and sometimes you think my hair makes me look almost like an angel.”
John blushes a bit at that, because hearing the sentiment spoken out loud is just embarrassing, no matter how true it is, but Sherlock continues on as if it doesn’t bother him. “You like when I act as though I don’t know what I’m doing, as though it’s my first time.” John’s cock gives a twitch in his trousers at just the thought of what Sherlock is saying and he has to shift his body weight where he is sitting. Sherlock smirks at the movement, knowing exactly what it is for, and continues, “You like telling me what to do with myself. You like talking to me like I’m a child. You like having me on my knees in front of you when I suck your cock, because you like the height difference.” Christ, yes, he does. “You like it all, John.”
There’s no point denying anything Sherlock has said. Both he and John know it is more than pointless. John just shakes his head and chuckles from his seat across the room. “You’re too clever for your own good, you know that, Sherlock Holmes?”
Sherlock smiles at him, all child-like innocence and spoiled sweetness.
John would do anything to get that smile to land on his lips.
He considers the boy for a moment, formulating a plan of attack. Sherlock isn’t the only one who can be sneaky and devious, after all. “Do you like your present, love?” John asks him after a careful pause.
Sherlock beams and nods his head emphatically and John can practically see the teen’s years slipping away from him, leaving the vestiges of a particular kind of immaturity behind that is both endearing and disturbingly arousing to watch.
“Come give us a kiss for it, then.”
Sherlock gets up and walks over to him, his dressing gown billowing out around him as he moves, clutching the bear in front of him against his stomach. John’s cock jumps at the sight, pressing painfully against the seam of his trousers. When Sherlock reaches him, he bends down and whispers, “Thank you for my present,” once again before giving John a rather disappointingly chaste kiss on the lips. But before John can reach up and grab his face to drag him back down for a proper snog, Sherlock pulls away with a look that is caught somewhere between surprise and fear.
“Oh,” he breathes out, his sea-foam green eyes flickering down to the ground for a second. A faint pinkness tinges his cheeks.
“What is it, sweetheart?” John asks him concernedly, frowning.
“I…I think something’s wrong. I feel strange.”
For a moment John’s concern grows. “Strange how?” It’s not like Sherlock to be so vague. “Are you not feeling well?” He presses the back of his hand against the cool skin of Sherlock’s forehead.
Sherlock shakes his head and bites his lip. “I feel strange, but not sick,” he says, chewing his lip nervously and not looking at John, face red with embarrassment.
And suddenly John understands. His stomach swoops as arousal shoots through him, setting his nerve endings on fire.
“Where do you feel strange, baby? Here?” he asks, playing along and bringing a hand up to rub at Sherlock’s tummy, slipping it underneath the bear that the boy still has clutched to his chest.
Sherlock shakes his head again, eyes wide and wavering, and looks as though he doesn’t know what to do for a moment. John takes a second to marvel at him. He doesn’t know how a 16 year old teenager can look and act so seemingly young but Sherlock is doing it, and doing it well. “It feels strange there, too,” he tells John on a secretive whisper, “but that’s not all.”
“Baby, you need to tell me where it feels strange if you want me to make it better.” A tingle runs up John’s spine at his words. God, are they really going to do this?
Sherlock drops his hands, still clutching his new bear, to rub the soft toy along his clothed crotch, bringing John’s attention to Sherlock’s hard cock—which his pyjama bottoms are doing nothing to hide—and shifting his hips back and forth minutely against his bear, whimpering softly at the sensation.
Oh, fuck, John thinks, licking his lips and staring wide-eyed at the spectacle before him.
“Look,” Sherlock says breathlessly as he drags his pyjama bottoms down just enough to expose himself a little. John doesn’t know who Sherlock is talking to because he hasn’t taken his eyes off of the boy since he came into the bloody room. “It’s gotten all hard and it’s leaking from the tip.” Sherlock presses his toy against his cock and gasps. “It feels so good when I rub my bear against it.”
Jesus Christ, John thinks. The breath leaves his lungs in a rush, like someone has punched him in the chest. He can feel all of his blood rushing to his prick, engorging it fully, making it jerk in his trousers. He can’t stop himself from using a hand to rub at it through his jeans, releasing some of the pressure because God, it’s just too fucking much. Sherlock is making him lose his mind.
“Does it make you feel better, baby?” John asks, a bit breathless himself. His cock is so stiff inside his trousers that it hurts but he doesn’t take it out yet. He isn’t sure exactly where this game is going and he’ll be damned if he is going to ruin it by whipping his prick out before Sherlock is through playing his part. “Doesn’t feel strange anymore?”
Sherlock presses the toy harder into his groin, grinding against it, leaking sticky precome onto the bear’s face and dragging the dripping tip through the soft fur, staining a trail down the length of it. “It makes me feel better, but I still feel strange,” he says, voice almost a whine, as if he is frustrated that he isn’t getting the relief he wants but he isn’t sure what to do. “Is that okay?” he asks John.
God, John can’t believe they are playing this game, doing this, saying these things. They are going to hell for sure. He’s imagined these things, thought about them before, if he’s being completely honest with himself. But he has never let them come to the surface, never really let these thoughts see the light of day, always pushing these desires further down inside himself every time they tried to claw their way back up.
Yet as he watches Sherlock actively participate in his own debauchery, John realises with a start that this is something that they both want. This is something that they are both enjoying, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with this. There is nothing to be ashamed of. This isn’t something that John would ever think of doing with anyone else—this is just between him and Sherlock. Another aspect of their relationship that is so deep and complex that neither of them have words to describe or explain it. There is no reason to be embarrassed. This is still them.
“Yeah, sweetheart, that’s okay,” John reassures him, voice cracking under the sudden onslaught of emotion as he watches raptly while Sherlock fucks himself awkwardly into his bear. “Show me what makes you feel best. Show me with your new toy.”
Sherlock takes a shuddering breath above him and John glances up to see that Sherlock is staring at him with a peculiar look on his face—one of surprise, as if he hadn’t expected John to let him take the game this far, hadn’t expected John to follow him down this rabbit hole as willingly as he has. It is only there for a brief second before his mask slips back down into place, innocent and young and childlike once again.
And then he crushes his bear into him, using both hands, and fucks into it, throwing his head back and moaning at the sensation as he stands in between John’s open legs. John holds on to Sherlock’s sides to steady him, fingers tangling in the loose ends of his dressing gown to keep it from billowing in front of Sherlock’s body and obstructing John’s view.
“That’s it, love,” John encourages him, staring up at Sherlock’s enraptured face. “That’s beautiful.”
Sherlock’s hips are thrusting frantically now, level with John’s face as he sits in front of the boy, and John can’t help but look in front of him. Sherlock’s cock is stiff and red, leaking freely as it presses a divot into the bear and slides across its fur with each jerky thrust of Sherlock’s hips. His large hands are gripping the toy tightly to him, straining its limbs greedily as he takes his pleasure from it. The bear’s fur is sticky and matted where Sherlock’s cockhead has dragged across it, and John knows it will be in desperate need of a wash after they are through with it.
But he doesn’t care. Right now, with Sherlock thrusting into a soft toy that John has given him as a present, with John calling him “baby” and Sherlock acting so young and innocent, it is the sexiest thing John has ever seen.
“Oh my God, look at you,” John breathes out, his fingers tightening on Sherlock’s sides, hands on the boy’s hips as he rides the motions of Sherlock’s thrusts. “You’re the filthiest thing I’ve ever seen. Does it feel good, baby?”
Sherlock can only moan in response, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut as he stands in between John’s spread knees on shaking legs.
“Tell me, Sherlock,” John urges, voice gone low and rough with arousal. “Tell me how good it feels.”
“It…I…” he says, but before he can get another word out, he is coming, gasping out a shout and streaking his bear with pearly, milky white come.
Fucking hell, John thinks, licking his lips and looking at the spectacle before him. Sherlock is shuddering above him, body hunched over slightly from the power of his orgasm, head hanging close to John’s now. John stares, wide eyed, his cock aching in his trousers. He hadn’t thought Sherlock would actually finish that way. John thought Sherlock would need some help, some extra stimulation, at the very least.
But Sherlock is panting above him, cheeks flushed deliciously in that way that they do after he comes spectacularly, and his chameleon eyes are twinkling a bright blue in their post-orgasmic haze. Sherlock lifts his head slightly to look at John, their eyes locking for a moment before he glances down at John’s straining erection and grins wickedly.
John knows that grin. It means that he should look away; it means that he should get as far away from the boy as possible, before Sherlock does something that will make him lose his mind. But he can’t. He can’t turn away from Sherlock’s bright penetrating gaze and the warm, pulsing heat of Sherlock’s body so close to his own.
Sherlock straightens slowly and John’s eyes follow the movement. Sherlock’s grip on his bear loosens somewhat but he still holds it steady, bringing it up close to his chest and gazing down at it, frowning as he looks at the mess he has made of its fur. And then, with John’s eyes still glued to him, he wipes up a drop of come with his thumb, guiding his hand up to his mouth and licking the digit clean.
John’s mouth goes dry as he sits there and looks at the sight before him. When Sherlock has licked the come off of his thumb, he slides it out of his mouth only slightly, no longer sucking it but letting the tip sit on his full bottom lip, a tease that is driving John insane with arousal.
“Oh bloody fucking hell, Sherlock, you’re killing me,” John moans, voice harsh and broken, breath nothing but ragged pants.
How does Sherlock know? How does he always know just exactly what it is that John wants; what he wants to see, to hear, without ever having to be told? The boy is a menace, a complete and utter health hazard. Sherlock grins down at him sinfully, his verdigris eyes sparkling mischievously in a way that John doesn’t think he has ever seen, flirty and playful and full of sin.
John realises suddenly that Sherlock has gotten too bold in this game. Isn’t John supposed to be the adult here? Isn’t he supposed to be the one making all of the rules, the one with all the power?
He suddenly has the most wicked idea.
“Sherlock,” he says reprovingly, making his tone go hard and tsking sharply with his tongue against his teeth. “You’ve made a mess of your new toy. Is that how you treat gifts that Daddy gives you?”
The word hangs in the air between them, heavy with implication and sweet promise as they stare at each other. Sherlock’s eyes go wide and dark as his pupils dilate further at John’s words and his breath catches in his lungs.
It is the first time that the name has been said, the first time that John has said it in regards to himself, the first time that John has allowed it to be said. He had always fought so hard against it, because he had thought that he hadn’t wanted it. But he does. He wants it. Badly. And he will not feel ashamed of wanting it any longer.
“I’m sorry….Daddy,” Sherlock tells him on a shaking, shuddering breath.
Hearing Sherlock call him that sends a shiver of arousal spiking through John so sharp that his cock jumps in his lap and he thinks he may be in danger of coming right then and there. Christ, he had no idea how good a simple word could make him feel. Why had he fought Sherlock for so long about this?
He shakes his head—he needs to focus. Sherlock is enjoying this game immensely. John can see that from Sherlock’s dilated pupils and heavy breathing—he is still aroused even though he has just come—and he doesn’t want to disappoint his little boy now that they are finally playing properly. He needs to stay in character. There will be plenty of time for him to dwell on things later.
“You can be sorry all you want, young man, but you still have to clean up your mess,” he tells Sherlock matter-of-factly. “Go on. Clean it up.”
Sherlock just looks at him, confused. “But I don’t have anything to—”
“That sharp tongue of yours is good for more than just snarky comments and brilliant deductions,” John says vaguely but he knows that Sherlock understands just what he means, just what he wants.
“Oh.” Sherlock releases the sound on a whispery exhale, eyes dropping down demurely to his bear as a faint blush tinges his cheeks. John doesn’t know whether it’s the embarrassment of being forced to clean up his own mess, or just the fact that John is watching him do it so intently that has Sherlock squirming uncomfortably, but he doesn’t voice any complaint. On the contrary, he is obedient and willing as he opens his mouth and lowers his head to his toy, running the flat expanse of his tongue over the biggest streak of come, wiping it up.
As John watches Sherlock start to lick his toy clean, he can’t stop himself any longer. He brings shaking hands up to struggle with his jeans as he tears at his flies, not even bothering to take the rest of his clothes off. He simply shoves his trousers and pants down his thighs while he pulls his cock out and strokes himself as he watches Sherlock lick his own come off of his bear.
Sherlock takes his time, making a mess of his mouth, letting semen and spit run down his chin and smear across his lips. He knows John loves to see him filthy, and he doesn’t hold back now. Sherlock makes small little mewling whimpers in the back of his throat as he licks at his bear’s fur. John’s cock leaks freely in his hand, smearing precome all over his belly and groin as he furiously wanks to the picture Sherlock makes in front of him.
When the toy is as clean as Sherlock can possibly make it with his sticky, stained mouth, he drops it to his side. He watches John with wide, imploring eyes, licking his lips of any trace of come that he can find on them. John has been so hard for so long that there is a fine sheen of precome and sweat all along his stomach and thighs. John doesn’t usually leak this much before he orgasms; he has always been different from Sherlock that way, who gets so wet all of the time. But John looks down the length of his body now to see that he has smeared precome everywhere, his skin sticky and slick with it.
“Look,” he tells Sherlock, thrusting his hips up into his hand as he clenches his fist around his stiff cock. He lets the head of it poke through the circle his fingers have made, more liquid welling up from the pressure of his grip. Sherlock follows the movement with greedy eyes. “You’ve made me make a mess, too. I think you need to be a good boy and clean this up as well,” he says.
No sooner are the words out of his mouth than Sherlock is on him, dropping to his knees between John’s spread feet in a tangle of dressing gown and half-worn pyjama bottoms. His kittenish tongue begins lapping up the sticky juice that has smeared all over John’s stomach from the tip of his cock, then trails wetly down to his pubic bone, and then over to his thighs. He tries to bump John’s hand out of the way, to get to the man’s cock, but John won’t let go, continuing to wank himself while Sherlock licks him clean.
Sherlock makes a noise of discontent in the back of his throat but continues to mouth at any part of John he can reach, lips ghosting over to the man’s sensitive balls where lingering traces of precome have dripped, lapping up everything he can get.
“Fuck, that’s just gorgeous,” John moans as he gives himself a languid stroke while Sherlock sucks on his balls. “My gorgeous little boy, putting his pretty little mouth to good use. Show me how clever that mouth is, Sherlock. Let me see it.”
And Sherlock does. He licks and nibbles and mouths and nuzzles at every bit of John that the man will let him reach, even slurping at John’s fingers, following the glide of his hand as John wanks himself, licking at the precome leaking between John’s clenched fist.
And finally, when John knows Sherlock can’t take being denied any longer, Sherlock pulls back and asks on a shaky breath, “D-daddy, can I suck you?”
That goes straight to John’s cock. It twitches and throbs in his hand. He is so turned on he doesn’t know how he hasn’t shot his load yet. It shouldn’t be possible for him to be this aroused by Sherlock’s words, by Sherlock calling him “Daddy”. It isn’t decent.
“That’s something that only big boys do, Sherlock,” John says, and he’s surprised he can even string together a sentence—there is absolutely no blood left in his brain. “Are you going to be a big boy for me?”
Sherlock looks up at him demurely through lowered lashes, the perfect combination of self-conscious and eager. “Yes, sir,” he says softly, and that sends another shiver of arousal through John’s body.
“It will need to be a secret,” John continues, adding more fuel to the fire that they are burning themselves with. “You’ll have to be quiet, sweetheart—we don’t want anyone finding out. Can you do that for me? Can you be a quiet little mouse for Daddy?”
“Uh-huh,” Sherlock says with a nod, licking his lips in anticipation, and John can’t help but follow the tip of that sinful, pretty pink tongue with his eyes.
“Yes, all right then,” he chokes out, stroking his prick one last time and letting his hand drift to the base of it, holding it up to give Sherlock a better angle to take it into his mouth. “Come show Daddy how much you love to suck his cock.”
Sherlock comes to him willingly, shuffling forward on knees held prisoner by the waistband of his pyjamas. He places his hands on John’s thighs to steady himself as he leans over the man’s groin and opens his mouth for John’s prick. With a jolt of shock, John realises that Sherlock still has one hand clenched tightly around his bear, the toy dangling by its arm from his grasp as he presses his closed fist to John’s leg. But John doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought as Sherlock runs his tongue clumsily up and down John’s shaft, mouth eager as he takes the tip of it in and sucks hard at it.
John’s head falls back at the incredible, indescribable feel of it and Sherlock makes a small, pleased humming noise as he pulls off, licking his lips lasciviously and smiling proudly up at the man.
“You taste just like me, Daddy,” he informs John happily.
John can only groan and throw his head back again, trying desperately not to come right then.
Sherlock drops his mouth to John’s cock once more and rubs it against his cheek as he sucks at the sensitive spot on the underside just below the head for a moment before mouthing up and down the length. He gets to the tip and swirls his tongue around the glans before sliding his lips over the shaft again, but only taking less than half of John’s length into his mouth.
It takes everything in John not to thrust up into the velvety heat of Sherlock’s mouth.
“Come on, open up love,” he pants, groaning in frustration. John’s hands come up to tangle in Sherlock’s hair, fingers carding through dark curls and then sliding down to rub at the sharp line of his jaw, urging Sherlock silently to open his mouth wider. “Take more of it.”
“But, Daddy,” Sherlock says, sliding his mouth off of the tip of John’s prick, lips shiny with spit and precome, “it’s too big.”
John shakes his head, because his brain can’t seem to form words for a moment. His cock twitches against Sherlock’s face and the boy giggles softly at the feel of it. “You can take it, pet, I know you can,” John tells him when he can finally think straight once again. He runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair once more, making a mess of it. “Come on, you can do it. Just a little bit at a time, all right?” John reassures him, using one hand to hold his prick at the very base for Sherlock to take.
Sherlock looks up at him with trepidation but opens his mouth up for John to guide the head in. Once he feels it slip past his lips Sherlock closes his mouth over it and it is all John can do to not thrust the rest of the way to the back of Sherlock’s throat. The whole point of this game is the slowness, he knows, the innocence, and it won’t do to ruin it. But John knows that Sherlock is masterful with a cock, knowing just how to make John come in a mind-numbing orgasm. To feel Sherlock so hesitant and unsure is something that he hasn’t felt in a long time, since they first got together, and he has to remind himself to enjoy the novelty of the sensation.
Sherlock’s tongue stutters about the length of his shaft clumsily, teeth scraping lightly over the sensitive skin in a way that sends delicious tingles up John’s body. Sherlock squirms and gags around his mouthful, even though he barely has over half of John in his mouth and the man knows he can take so much more. But after a few moments Sherlock seems to give up the game; he begins to suck with vigour, taking John deep into the back of his throat and swallowing impatiently around the length of him.
John moans at the feeling of Sherlock’s muscles contracting around him. “Such an eager little boy for me,” he says lowly, tangling his fingers in the dark curls and directing Sherlock’s movements.
Sherlock hums happily at his words, swirling his tongue around the shaft, licking up the underside and across the top before sinking back down on it, slick spit easing his way and John can’t take any more—he is going to come if Sherlock keeps up and he doesn’t want to finish this way.
“God, come up here, baby,” he says, dropping his hands to grab Sherlock’s arms and pulling him up. He finally fully tugs off the pyjama bottoms that are still caught around Sherlock’s thighs and helps him settle into John’s lap, long silk dressing gown fluttering down on either side of John’s legs and blanketing them. He catches Sherlock’s mouth halfway up and devours it, tasting the sharp tang of Sherlock’s ejaculate from earlier and his own precome on Sherlock’s tongue. “I can’t take it anymore, you’re driving me crazy,” John murmurs his mouth, not letting their lips part.
“Did I do it right, Daddy?” Sherlock asks as he pulls away slightly so that he can stare at John. The look in his eyes is almost overwhelming in its innocence and genuineness, and John’s movements stutter to a halt. This isn’t part of whatever internal script Sherlock had planned out, John realises. He has forgotten just how much reassurance Sherlock had needed in the beginning of their relationship; it would make sense that the deeper Sherlock sinks into this headspace of his, the more self-conscious he would get. After all, Sherlock loves knowing that he is doing well. He loves knowing that he is being good for John.
“Yes, sweetheart. You did it perfectly,” John assures him, running his hands soothingly up and down Sherlock’s sides underneath his sleep shirt and dressing gown, touching bare skin. “So well that Daddy can’t help but want to fuck you now. Do you want that, Sherlock? Do you want Daddy to put his cock in you? Will you let me?”
“Yes, please, Daddy,” Sherlock moans. “I want you to.”
“Come here, then. Undress and lie down on the bed for me,” John tells him as he helps Sherlock off of him and motions for the boy to lie face down in front of John. Sherlock messily sheds the rest of his clothes and clambers onto the mattress on all fours, teddy bear still juggled from one hand to the other, and crawls to the middle of the bed. He settles on his stomach with his arms stretched out above him, both hands clutching his toy as it rests by the headboard above his head. He turns to look at John over his shoulder as the man undresses, eyes soft and worried.
“Will it hurt, Daddy?” he asks as John finishes shucking his clothes off before climbing into the bed and settling into position over Sherlock.
When he hears Sherlock’s question, though, John stills, a jolt of surprise shooting through his body like lightning striking him. The words are so reminiscent of something that Sherlock asked him when they first got together—what feels like ages ago now—and it makes a warm little bubble of tenderness float up into John’s chest.
“No, kitten,” John tells him, giving him a reassuring smile and running his hand soothingly down along the length of his long naked body. “Daddy would never hurt you,” he promises, much like he promised Sherlock that day, when Sherlock had first asked John that question. The answer is still the same now as it was back then, and John knows without a doubt that Sherlock could ask him the same thing a million years from now and John’s response wouldn’t change at all.
Sherlock smiles back at him, a dazzling, blindingly happy smile full of trust and love and warmth, because John figures that Sherlock knows exactly what he is thinking. Sherlock is insightful like that.
Without saying anything else, John leans over to Sherlock’s bedside table and finds his bottle of lube, opening it up and slicking his fingers liberally. He grips Sherlock’s hips and lifts him slightly, so that he is resting on his knees and elbows, then wets Sherlock’s hole, taking a moment to get Sherlock accustomed to the feeling of his fingers rubbing and poking at the sensitive flesh. Some of the lube runs down the flat expanse of skin below his rim, following the line of his perineum until it reaches his sac, and continuing down to drip slowly onto the base of Sherlock’s stiff prick. John lets his fingers follow the trail, pressing into the smooth, stretched flesh below Sherlock’s arsehole and letting the lube glide his fingers over the sensitive balls and down to the hard cock. He pumps Sherlock a few times, distracting him as his other hand, covered with more slick, dips down to slip a single finger into Sherlock’s entrance.
“Ah!” Sherlock gasps, tensing slightly at the surprise invasion. John knows Sherlock’s body well after months of sleeping with him, though, and he immediately wiggles his finger around, searching out Sherlock’s prostate.
The wanton moan that escapes Sherlock’s mouth lets him know that he has found it.
“Does that feel good, pet?” he asks, smirking. He already knows it does, but he likes to hear Sherlock talk while he is out of his mind with arousal.
“Ah! Y-yes!” Sherlock bites out, eyes closing against the onslaught of sensation John is making him feel. “It makes me leak more, Daddy, look,” he says, lifting his hips up slightly higher so that John can see the puddle of precome that he has dripped onto the bed sheets.
“I know,” John says with a fake put-upon sigh. He slips another finger into Sherlock as he whispers to him, “You’ve always been such a messy little boy, Sherlock.”
Sherlock whimpers at the addition, fingers tearing into his bear as he drags it down towards his face, hiding against it. “I-I’m sorry, Daddy,” he moans as John stretches him around his middle and index fingers.
“It’s all right, darling,” John replies, his tone forgiving. “I know you can’t help it. Especially when I make you feel good like this.” He presses into Sherlock’s prostate again, and the boy cries out loudly, hands clenching and unclenching around his bear as he presses his face into it harder, trying to find something to ground him. John slips a third finger into Sherlock’s tight hole and he gasps, hips jerking back into John’s hand of their own volition, and the man can’t help but grin. Sherlock has always been eager, greedy, no matter how he tries to come across in bed. He loves John’s fingers and he loves John’s cock and he loves being filled up and used. And John loves being the person to give him all of that.
He manages to stretch Sherlock around three fingers pressed deep into the boy’s hole for a while longer before he can’t resist it anymore; he has to feel Sherlock around him. “Do you want Daddy inside you now?” he asks, pushing his fingers in one last time, feeling his palm hit Sherlock’s arse cheeks.
“Yes,” Sherlock pants, squirming around him, mindless. “Yes, yes, yes.”
John manoeuvres them around so that they can trade places, sitting up at the head of the bed, his back pressed against the headboard. He gives his cock a few strokes with more lube, wetting it, as he lets Sherlock climb into his lap. Sherlock crawls over John’s thighs, dragging his bear along with him and settling it to one side of them, letting it fall against John’s leg as his feet straddle John’s hips to give him leverage to help him move better. Like this, John can position his prick right below Sherlock’s entrance. He presses his thick, wet cockhead up against the sensitive, small rim of Sherlock’s arsehole. Even though the boy has just taken three of John’s fingers, his hole has closed in on itself already, loose and pliant from its earlier stretching but always so deliciously tight, John knows. He presses upwards with his hips ever so slightly, letting the tip of his cock bump against the small pucker of muscle, making Sherlock gasp and squirm at the sensation. John loves the frantic sounds he is pulling out of Sherlock’s throat so he pushes up a little more, pressing against the boy’s body harder.
“Daddy, Daddy, it’s too big! It won’t fit!” Sherlock suddenly exclaims against the feel of John’s cock barely slipping into him. There is something that sounds disturbingly too close to real panic in his voice, and it makes John pause, his stomach clenching in fear.
But Sherlock said that he wanted this, John’s mind tries to rationalise as his body goes still and rigid beneath the boy. Sherlock had explicitly said yes, just a few seconds ago, and he isn’t exactly telling him “no” right now. And John knows that what Sherlock is saying he is afraid of right now, that John will be too big for him, isn’t true at all—they both know this for a fact.
It takes John only a few seconds of his own lightning fast deductions to realise that this is just another part of the game for Sherlock, another facet that—if Sherlock’s renewed and raging hard-on is anything to go by—only serves to heighten his arousal.
But still, they will be talking about safewords as soon as John is finished buggering the fuck out of Sherlock.
For now, though, John just runs soothing hands up and down Sherlock’s sides and along his back, shushing Sherlock with calming noises, like he would a skittish animal. “It’ll fit, love,” John whispers to him softly, placing light, barely-there kisses on any spot that he can reach—Sherlock’s face, his shoulders, his chest, the top of his soft tummy. “I know you can take it. You just have to relax.”
And then he starts to push in.
Sherlock gasps and wiggles, but John’s hands clamp down around his hips firmly, holding him in place while he stares up at Sherlock’s face, making sure that he isn’t actually hurting him.
Above him, Sherlock grits his teeth and winces, sucking in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t seem much different from some of the other times that they have fucked. His prick is still stiff and jutting upwards between them, so John pushes forward a little more and feels as Sherlock let himself sink down onto John’s length. The tight rim of Sherlock’s hole pops past the crown of his cock and John gives the boy a minute to adjust to the widest part of him, past the head. It is always Sherlock’s favourite part of being penetrated, when John’s cock stretches him as far as it can before Sherlock swallows the rest of John easily, sinking onto him slickly with the help of the lube.
And this time is no different, gravity helping to speed the process along as Sherlock sinks deeper and deeper onto John’s prick by his own volition, his muscles opening up around the thickest part of John and then taking the rest of him easily where he tapers down. Suddenly Sherlock’s arse cheeks meet John’s thighs and the man can’t help the sound that is torn from his throat as he is enveloped in the tight, wet heat of his young lover.
“Oh!” Sherlock gasps as he bottoms out on top of John. “You’re all the way in.” He sounds wrecked, but there is a hint of amazement in his voice, as if he truly is astonished that he has taken all of John’s cock after all. He wiggles around on top of John experimentally, moaning at the sensation of being filled, and John can’t tear his eyes away from the look of rapture on Sherlock’s face.
“Feels good, Daddy,” Sherlock pants, his head falling forward and dropping against John’s shoulder, his words hitting John’s sweaty skin in moist puffs of ragged air. “Does it feel good for you, too?”
“Fuck yeah, baby, it feels good.” Christ, of course it feels good. John can barely think straight, it feels so bloody good. “Daddy’s going to fuck you now, love, okay? I’ll be easy, I promise.”
“Yes,” Sherlock moans, and for a second he sounds like himself again, like he normally does when he and John have sex, voice deep and rich, somehow older than how he has been sounding during all of this. “Yes, do it. Please, do it.”
John thrusts once, shallowly, to get them used to the feel of it at first, and the movement has them shuddering and shaking as they cling to each other, holding on against the onslaught of sensation. John will never understand it. He will never understand how he has had Sherlock so many times before, and yet each time feels brand new, each time he always wants more. He wants to drown in Sherlock, get lost in him, burn up in him. Instead, he settles for searching out Sherlock’s mouth with his own and kissing him hungrily as he moves his hips again, pressing into Sherlock, setting a steady rhythm.
As Sherlock settles deeper onto John’s cock, he brings his hands between them to steady himself, and John notices with a grunt of surprise that he is still holding on to his bear, squishing it between them as they move against one another. Tiny little pinpricks poke into John’s chest from where the wet, stained fur of the bear has dried to stiff points. The thing will need a serious washing once they are through but John can’t really be arsed to care about that right now. Not with Sherlock moving slowly, experimentally, up and down on his cock the way he is, squirming and wiggling his hips as he tries to feel all the different angles their position can provide.
John thrusts up once more, wanting so badly to fuck the boy hard, relentlessly. As he pulls back, though, one of Sherlock’s hands leaves his bear where it is resting by his stomach and the brunet reaches cautiously down in between them to touch right where they are connected. John can actually feel his searching fingers tracing the stretched, sore rim of his hole, skittering along John’s cock. Sherlock pushes up and slides back down and his hand follows his arse, a look of wonder on his face which, combined with the feeling of his fingers tracing their connected skin, has John throwing his head back against the headboard of the bed and moaning.
“I can feel you, Daddy,” Sherlock says, and his little voice is filled with wonder. “I can feel you going all the way up in me. I can feel you inside, in my tummy. Do you feel it, too, Daddy? Can you feel me?”
Fuck, John thinks, gritting his teeth and trying not to come. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Yeah,” he says, and when he speaks his voice sounds wheezy and pained. “Yeah, I feel you, baby boy.”
Christ, he can’t believe the words coming out of Sherlock’s mouth, the depraved things he is saying—and how much they are turning John on. He doesn’t think there is anything in this world quite like someone with a brilliant mind and a filthy mouth, both of which Sherlock seem to have in spades, but someone with a brilliant mouth and a filthy mind is a good find, also.
And John seems to have found both in Sherlock. Amazing.
John tries to rock his hips up once again, but Sherlock’s arm is in the way. Sherlock seems to notice this, because he moves it suddenly, pulling it out from between them and bringing it up to wrap around John’s shoulder. As soon as he is able, John wastes no time in thrusting up into the body above him harshly, tearing a moan from Sherlock’s throat. The boy’s head falls back and John is gifted with a long, pale neck, begging to be kissed. John sinks his teeth into the skin, sucking a deep dark bruise into the sensitive flesh as Sherlock grinds down into him with every thrust, the sounds coming out of him positively sinful.
“Yes,” John groans, licking the angry red mark his mouth has just made below Sherlock’s ear. “Yes.” He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s back to keep them steady as he pulls back slightly so that John can look at him. Sherlock looks completely immoral, clutching his bear with both hands as he bounces up and down on John’s prick, whimpering loudly and crying out. His head drops down to John’s, foreheads pressing together, and their breaths mingle as they pant against each other’s mouths.
“My sweet boy,” John whispers to him, nuzzling his face as he pushes into the tight heat. “My little angel.”
Sherlock sobs out a choked noise and his head drops heavily down to John’s shoulder, slick with sweat from Sherlock’s forehead and his tears of pleasure.
John needs to come. He’s been so horny for so long that he’s aching with the frustration of holding it back, and he knows that he isn’t going to last much longer. But he can feel Sherlock so close to the edge again, right on the precipice, and he wants desperately to take the boy over the brink with him.
“Come for Daddy,” John tells him, thrusting up into Sherlock with abandon. “Come for me, baby, come on Daddy’s cock. You can do it, it’s okay.”
“B-but Daddy, I’ll get you—a-ah—all dirty.” On his lap, Sherlock’s grip on his bear tightens and he bites his lip and closes his eyes, as if he is torn between wanting to come and not wanting to get in trouble. “I’ll make a m-mess all o-over you.”
John groans and his balls tighten and he really doesn’t think he can hold out for very much longer, especially with Sherlock looking like that while John is pounding up into him, saying things like that while clutching onto his stuffed bear so desperately as he is getting fucked. “You can get me dirty, baby, it’s all right,” John assures him, his voice strained and broken now as all of his energy and focus goes into trying not to come until he can be sure that he has taken Sherlock along with him. “Come on, do it like you did the first time, with your toy. Show me how you messed your bear,” he whispers into the sweaty hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.
That’s all that it takes. Sherlock gasps loudly against John’s shoulder, fingers clenching down around his toy in desperation as he comes in between them. John can feel some of it hit his stomach, but he figures most of it must land on the bear. He can feel its wet fur press into him as Sherlock squirms in his lap while John thrusts into him hard a few more times. He buries himself deep into the boy and comes with a grunt that is almost pained after waiting so long and being teased so mercilessly.
Almost immediately, they both fall back onto the bed, sated and beyond exhausted. John lets out a tired oof! as Sherlock lands on him before rolling off to the side, hands still clutching his bear and bringing it to rest between them as he settles in next to John, his curly head rolling onto John’s shoulder. The toy is sticky and wet between them, John’s stomach and cock are covered in come, and he can feel dried spit all over his groin and thighs from where Sherlock was licking him clean earlier. He feels decidedly filthy, and like he needs a shower in more ways than one, but he thinks it is the best orgasm he has ever had in his life.
They lie there for long moments, both panting heavily, neither speaking. John’s mind is racing with the implications of what they have just done, what it will mean, and how it will change their relationship. He tries to think of something to say, opens his mouth, but finds he doesn’t have the words. So he closes it, opens it again, when Sherlock suddenly beats him to it.
“Thank you, John,” he says quietly, voice a deep rumble in the stillness of the room.
For a second John is confused, and he doesn’t know how to respond. He doesn’t understand why Sherlock keeps thanking him. They are done playing this game, they aren’t having sex anymore. “You don’t have to keep thanking me for it, Sherlock,” John tells him. “It’s just a stupid soft toy that I picked up because I thought it might lead to…well, this.” He makes a gesture at the mess between them and can’t help the chuckle that escapes his lips, looking at the disaster they have made of one another and the bed.
But Sherlock won’t be brushed off so easily. “No,” he says, shaking his head as it rolls on John’s scarred shoulder. “I’m not thanking you for giving me a soft toy. I’m thanking you for giving me a part of yourself; for sharing this with me. I know how uncomfortable this must have been for you.” Sherlock lifts his head and looks down at him. John watches as those quicksilver eyes practically shift colours right in front of him, a blue-green-grey that seems nameless. “This isn’t just a soft toy. This is a representation of how much you trust and love me. I know how hard it’s been for you to come to terms with what you want. Thank you for sharing this with me.” He leans forward to press a close-mouthed kiss to John’s lips, chaste and demure after what they have just done with each other.
John is so shocked by Sherlock’s words that he doesn’t say anything, can’t do anything. He barely manages to offer a kiss back before Sherlock is pulling away from him, lying back down next to John and resting his head once again on John’s shoulder.
“And, you should know,” Sherlock speaks again once he is settled into John’s side, not looking at him, “that this…it’s…it’s not just for you….”
John tilts his head down to look at Sherlock as best he can in their position, but the boy is staring determinedly away from him. There is a soft, faint flush on his cheeks, as if he is embarrassed to have spoken that little confession out loud.
John thinks about Sherlock’s words, the implication of them. He knows why he likes doing this—this fetish, this kink, whatever it is that it can be called—and he knows why he wants it, but he has never stopped to think overly on why Sherlock might need it. On what Sherlock could be getting out of his side of it. Yes, Sherlock was certainly right when he told John that the man was intrigued by the whole “daddy kink” idea because he is a natural caregiver and he has a penchant for dominance and control, but Sherlock has never mentioned what made him so eager to say yes to exploring John’s fetish with him.
Is it the opposite end of the spectrum, then? If John enjoys the “daddy” aspect of the daddy kink, does that leave Sherlock as the one who enjoys being taken care of, being nurtured and praised and punished? Given rules to follow and consequences to deal with? Being loved unconditionally by a figure of authority, given a feeling of safety and comfort and guidance?
Is that why Sherlock has been so eager to participate in all of this?
“Sherlock,” John says, at a loss. His voice is soft and sorrowful and John has no idea what he should say to him. “I…” John trails off, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind. He just cuddles deeper into John’s side and sighs.
“I love you, John,” he whispers into John’s shoulder.
John takes a shaky breath. “I love you, too. God, I love you so much.” He wraps his arm tight around the slender body, crushing Sherlock to him. He feels like a weight has suddenly been lifted off of his chest, like something has been let loose. Now that they are here together, in the aftermath of all of this, John is shocked by how natural it all feels. It surprises him, the fact that he has been resisting this for so long, and now he realises that there was never any need. What he had thought earlier comes back to him with startling clarity: this is just another part of who they are together, just another aspect of themselves that they will learn to adjust to and manage together. “Thank you, Sherlock,” John tells him, because he doesn’t have any other words for how he feels, for what Sherlock has given him here, right now, letting John explore a part of himself that he has always been ashamed of and telling John something about himself that he has probably never admitted to anyone, even himself.
So John clings tightly to Sherlock, pressing a kiss to his forehead, and feels Sherlock hold him back just as desperately.
“Thank you.”